"Then stand by the door, curtsey when you're spoken to, and don't put your thumb in the soup."
"No, mistress."
"Is Mary Maria watching the fowls?"
"Wi' both her eyes, mistress."
"Hark!"
"I'm harking away, mistress."
And while the mistress and the maid harked vigilantly the ancient landlord ushered Miss Phyllida Courteen into the Travellers' Room of the Basket of Roses Inn.
As he entered, old Tabrum looked very much like a sexton leading a shy maid to the altar. She, flustered, expectant, murmured soft thanks into the farthest recesses of her swansdown muff, stumbled frequently to the voluble distress of her guide, and seemed afraid to look round the well-ordered comfortable room after so many miles of wind and driving rain.
"Dear soul! And where's the bridegroom?" exclaimed Mrs. Tabrum, as she led Phyllida to a high-backed chair right before the heart of the blazing fire.
Phyllida blushed as she explained Mr. Amor was travelling on horseback.